


The Utterly Devastating and Not in Any Way Ill Conceived Revenge of Damian Wayne

by Cy_kun



Series: Son of Batman [3]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Streets of Gotham
Genre: Can we all just agree that Colin needs to be constantly hugged?, Damian Wayne's brain is sixty five percent running commentary, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, They're twelve in this one, Which is probably why he forgets important variables whilst making his plans, are you noticing a pattern yet?, tiny boyfriends, whose issues have issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-05-12 20:27:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5679628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cy_kun/pseuds/Cy_kun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Father, the utterly unnecessary school you send me to has insulted me for the last time. I demand you use your wealth and influence to destroy them.”</p><p>Or, the one where Damian concocts a flawless plan to get revenge for a slight against his beloved while simultaneously forgetting to remove all the flaws.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Utterly Devastating and Not in Any Way Ill Conceived Revenge of Damian Wayne

“Father, the utterly unnecessary school you send me to has insulted me for the last time. I demand you use your wealth and influence to destroy them.”

Damian stared at his father, sitting behind his desk as he always was at this time of day. Just as Damian had planned. Because, though he currently had the appearance of a mere twelve year old boy, he was, as Grayson said, _intelligent beyond his years_. Grayson had smiled as he said this, as if he actually thought he had been giving Damian a _compliment_. It had been all Damian could do to refrain from stabbing him. As if there was anything _special_ about being more advanced than the pitiful, uneducated masses that inhabited this country. If anything, Damian was what they _should_ have been, if they cared to put in any kind of actual effort towards improving themselves.

Not that they would come close to Damian even if they did, of course. He was a Wayne _and_ an al Ghul. A _pureblood_ among muggleborns.

(And it was right about then he would have been forced to scowl, if he wasn't already scowling to show his father just how serious their upcoming conversation was going to be. He hated when _things_ from the movies Colin made him watch bled over into his daily, non-Colin thoughts. Every time they did, it only reminded him that Colin was currently back at his _orphanage,_ instead of at Damian's side where he belonged at all times.)

But Damian's breeding, intelligence, and all around superiority were not the reasons why he was confronting Father, so he pushed his musings to the side. He had a _plan_ , after all, and while it was flawless and foolproof, _he_ would be the only fool in the room if he didn't monitor it until it was complete.

And Damian Wayne was _no fool_.

His plan was simple and elegant. Because he was currently _almost_ at eye level with Father (due to an unfortunate...hiccup, in his genetic development, he was currently undersized for his age. But only slightly! Something he was sure would be rectified with time, but until then he was forced to wait for his father to be seated before he could meet his eyes without having to stare up at him from a position of weakness) he was sure Father would see that they were equals, and immediately agree with his demands.

“Damian...” Father sighed and pinched the bridge of his distinguished nose. Damian fought the urge to check to see if his own, smaller, slightly upturned nose had finally started to grow into what he was sure would one day be a very similar patrician feature. “What are you talking about?”

Damian's scowl deepened. Why did no one ever _listen_ to what he says? It would eliminate their need to constantly ask for clarification—as if that was _ever_ necessary. He had no idea why nobody, even his own father, seemed to be able to understand what he says. He was _always_ clear—in fact, he spoke the English language better than most people _twice_ his age who have grown up speaking _nothing but_ it—and he was _always_ precise and straightforward with his meaning. And yet, everyone seemed to assume he doesn't know the meaning of his own words. Which is ridiculous. (Although, occasionally convenient, on the rare occasions his ever-present calm and poise is shaken and he lets slip one of the varied and inventive revenge plans he has for the people who have insulted him. People who, more often than not, are Drake. Actually, they're _all_ Drake.) “As I've already said, I need you to destroy that school. Since I know you object to more thorough methods, such as explosives, or sending that alien you keep as a pet to burn it down with his heat vision—”

“Damian,” Father snapped. Damian bristled at being so rudely interrupted, but was otherwise glad his father finally seemed to be _getting it_. He puffed up, and tried not to appear _too_ smug as he pictured the faces of those so called “administrators” when they realized just what they had brought upon themselves. “Please tell me you didn't say any of this in school.”

“Of course not, Father. I know better than to mention the alien when—”

“ _Not_ the part about Clark.” Father's eye twitched. “And I told you to stop calling him 'the alien'. He's—” Father shook his head. “We can talk about that later. What I _meant_ was, please tell me you didn't make threats when you were at school that included the word 'explosives'.”

Damian frowned, not because he _had_ made such a threat, but because he couldn't _remember_. He'd said a _lot_ of things before they sent him home. “Why does it matter? Once the school is closed for good they will all be too busy leaving the city in shame to care about what I might have said.”

Father _stared_ at him, and Damian's frown deepened. Because he could almost _see_ the cowl sliding over his father's face, turning his look of disapproval from a look of disapproval to a _look of disapproval from the Batman_. As if Damian had somehow both personally _and_ professionally failed his father. It was one of the few things that could make Damian feel shame.

“Threatening to blow up a school is not only immoral, it's also _illegal_.” Father scowled, then muttered, “I never thought I'd have to say that again.” Damian was about to ask what he meant by that—though he was almost positive it must involve Todd in some way—but Father shook his head again, as if clearing it. “How did they not call the police on you?” Father narrowed his eyes. “ _Please_ tell me you didn't attack any police officers—”

“I didn't attack anyone! No one called the police on me!” He didn't think they did, anyway. If they did, it was after they sent him home and suspended him for the rest of the week. Which would have been incredibly stupid since he wouldn't have been there to be arrested, so he wouldn't be surprised if that's _exactly_ what they did. “And like I said, none of this will matter when—”

“Nothings going to happen to your school, Damian.”

Damian froze.

 _This was_ not _part of the plan._

“What do you mean, Father?” Damian asked, forcing himself not to jump to conclusions. Perhaps nothing was going to happen to his school because Father had heard about their insults through one of his information networks and he'd _already_ enacted vengeance for Damian. The Gordon woman was passably decent with computers, after all. Maybe she hacked something and found out and told Father, or maybe she did it herself as the beginning of an apology for all the times _she'd_ insulted him—

“I'm not destroying your school.”

“But you have to!” Damian yelled, stomping his foot.

“The only thing I _have_ to do is call the Headmaster and beg him not to expel you. _Again_.”

Damian's eyes started to well up with furious tears, and he ground his teeth together in an attempt to keep them from falling. This was impossible! His plans _never_ fail. Well, except when they did, but those were statistical anomalies so they didn't count.

He apparently didn't do a good enough job hiding his tears, however, because Father face softened slightly. If Damian wasn't so upset, he would have been insulted at the implication that he somehow deserved pity for a perfectly normal bodily reaction that he should have long since trained out of himself.

“ _Why_ did you want me to get your school closed down?” he asked.

“I wanted you to destroy it,” Damian muttered, glaring at nothing in particular.

“Why?” Father asked patiently.

“I already told you. Because they insulted me.”

Father sighed. “You know that isn't an appropriate response.” He slipped into his Batman voice, and Damian straightened up automatically. He knew he was in for a _dressing down_ , which was why he was stunned when his father made a visible effort to once again soften his voice before speaking. “I _know_ you know better than that. It's been months since you've let an insult or taunt cause you to act recklessly during patrol, and...maybe I was wrong not to praise you for that, but just because you've been doing good at night—” Damian couldn't help puffing out his chest. _Father noticed my efforts._ That thought was quickly followed with, _Of course he did. How could he not? I am mature and talented far beyond my years—_ “doesn't mean you can transfer all your bad habits to your civilian life. An insult isn't a good enough reason for—”

“Of course it is!” Damian shouted. “You have no idea what they did to me!”

Father's eyes narrowed. “What did they do?”

Damian froze. He...did not expect Father to actually ask. Which, now that he thought about it, was probably something he should have considered back during the planning stages of this conversation. His father was a detective, of _course_ he'd want to know why Damian needed him to avenge him. He silently cursed himself for his embarrassingly obvious oversight. Perhaps, if he took the time to invent a suitably tragic story, he might have succeeded.

And, more importantly, he wouldn't have to _answer this question he really didn't want to answer._

“I...don't know?”

He mentally sneered at himself. _Not even_ Drake _would come up with a lie that terrible._

And now, on top of everything else, he'd sort of admitted Drake was better than him at something.

This was the worst day _ever_.

“Damian,” his father said, the softness in his voice completely snuffed out. In fact, Damian was starting to think it had only ever been present to lull him into a false sense of security. A tactic Grandfather would wholeheartedly approve of. “If you don't tell me what happened you're benched for three weeks.”

“B-but!” Damian sputtered. “That's not _fair_!”

Ever since school had started back up patrol was the only time during the week he could see Colin. Not that father knew this. If he knew Damian occasionally sneaked away from his assigned route to spend time with his beloved, he would be in a _lot_ more trouble.

Instead of speaking, Father sat back in his chair and crossed his arms.

Damian wanted to _scream_. It was a horrifying feeling, mostly because only children threw tantrums and Damian was _not a child_. He had never in his life done anything so undignified. When he became angry, he lashed out in a mature, adult way. With knives and an intent to kill. Or, more recently at least, merely maim.

“I'm waiting,” Father said.

Damian practically vibrated in his chair. It was only his perfect self-control that kept him from attempting to run away. Father would only catch him and force him to answer his questions, which would just make this whole process even more humiliating. And with the way his night was going, he was almost sure that if Father was forced to take him down, Drake would arrive just in time to witness his humiliation. If he answered now, Drake would never see him brought low and thus would have nothing to distract him from the fact that he is _Drake_ and wholly inadequate in every way and no one will ever respect or admire him the way they do Damian.

If he thought about it that way, answering Father wouldn't be _embarrassing Damian_ so much as it would be _making Drake miserable_.

Damian finally relaxed.

“There is a...” He searched for the least childish way to describe it. “Social function at that school in a few weeks that I wished to attend. When I informed them of who I wished to accompany me, they outright refused to consider accommodating my wishes.” He might have stopped there, but talking about what had happened brought him fully back into the memory. He felt the same impotent rage and disbelief as the Headmaster denied his reasonable request with a smug smile and condescending tone. That wasn't even the worst part, though. Because Damian might have been able to tolerate an insult against himself, but never against Colin.

“The Headmaster wouldn't let me bring Colin,” Damian said, looking his father in the eye and _willing_ him to understand. “He passed judgment on him and refused to even listen when I tried to explain that Colin is _perfect_ and he should be honored that I was even considering inviting him to their stupid school dance.”

Damian froze, and to his horror he felt his cheeks start to redden.

Father raised an eyebrow. “You wanted to go to a _school dance_?”

Damian _burned_ with humiliation. _Drakeisn'theretosee. Drakeisn'theretosee. Drakeisn'theretosee. Drakeisn'theretosee._ He repeated the thought in his head like a mantra, desperately hoping it would cool his face before Father noticed.

He nodded sharply.

“And you wanted to go with Colin?”

This was easier to admit, because no matter how childish and _common_ a seventh grade dance was, he could never be anything but proud of being with Colin.

“Yes,” he said. “They were obviously too uptight and conservative to accept a same gendered couple, no matter what excuses they used.”

Father pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

“Damian,” he said patiently. “Gotham Academy is a _private_ school. They don't let anyone on campus who isn't enrolled, even for dances. They wouldn't have let you invite Colin even if one of you was a girl.”

“-tt-” Damian crossed his arms and glared at the floor. “That's exactly what _they_ said.”

“And they were right.”

Damian scoffed and hunched over, trying to hide his no doubt hideously splotchy face from Father. _How was I supposed to know the Headmaster was telling the truth? It's a stupid reason anyway. What's the point of the school even having a dance if they're not going to let Colin attend?_

He could tell Father was studying him, he could _feel_ the weight of Father's gaze as he picked Damian's posture and barely audible grumbles apart. Normally Damian would welcome such an inspection as an opportunity for Father to finally see just how skilled and _worthy_ Damian really is, but right then all he wanted to do was melt into the floor.

“I never thought you would be this invested in a school dance,” Father said.

Damian flushed even more. “Grayson forced me to go,” he mumbled. “To ' _socialize with kids my own age in a normal setting'._ ”

“Well, there will be other dances. You can skip this one—”

“No!” Damian shot to his feet before he could stop himself and bit his lip, _hard_ , to keep from furthering his humiliation.

It was pointless, Father had, of course, already seen through him.

“You were really looking forward to this,” he said, surprised.

“Of course I wasn't!” Damian denied. “I'm only upset because their rules are stupid and Colin should be exempt!”

Which was, maybe, sort of, not at all true.

Because Damian _had been_ looking forward to it. A lot, actually. Especially since he—stupidly, _so, so stupidly—_ already asked Colin to go with him. Colin had been so excited and happy, and his face had flushed and unlike when it happened to Damian it was adorable when Colin blushed. Colin had smiled all day after Damian had asked him, talking constantly about his _first dance with his boyfriend_ , and now Damian was going to have to tell Colin that it wouldn't be happening. And because this was _Colin_ , he would shrug and tell Damian it was okay, that they could do something else and it was fine, but Damian _knew_ it wouldn't be fine. Colin would be _sad_ and it would be _Damian's fault_ and nothing made Damian feel worse than making Colin sad.

“Look, Damian—”

A knock on the door interrupted whatever he was going to say.

“Come in,” Father said. The door opened and Pennyworth entered holding a telephone.

“Master Bruce? I apologize for interrupting but Headmaster Dixon is on the phone and he wishes to speak with you.”

“Can it wait? I'm busy with Damian right now.”

Damian's eyes widened. Father was going to make the Headmaster call him back? Just because he wanted to keep talking to Damian?

_Of course he is! Why should that be surprising? I'm obviously the superior choice._

Damian tried to dim his wild grin into a more respectable expression.

“I'm afraid not, sir,” Pennyworth said. “There has been mention of an incident of vandalism towards the Headmaster's car, and the word 'expulsion' has been repeated fourteen times since I picked up the phone.”

Well. That certainly made it easier not to smile.

Father's turned his cold, blue eyes back to Damian, who struggled not to squirm.

“You vandalized his _car_?”

He thought about pointing out that the word “vandalism” only applies to _property_ , and the most common definition of property is real estate or grounds and so, _technically_ , Damian didn't actually _vandalize_ any car, but he didn't think Father would appreciate the subtleties of the English language right now.

(He also wisely decided not to bring up the fact that if Father had just _listened_ to him and ruined the school, the Headmaster would have had much bigger problems to deal with and wouldn't have bothered even calling about the car.)

Instead, he put forward the only defense he could.

“He insulted _Colin._ ”

Father stared at him. “By not letting you break the rules so you could take him to a dance.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Damian said, relieved that Father seemed to be _finally get_ _ting it_.

“...you're grounded and benched for a _month_.”

Damian sputtered. “Wh- _what_? Father—!”

“No arguments,” Father said in his full Batman voice. Damian bit off his argument and settled into a furious sulk. “Now go to your room while I try to keep you from getting expelled _again_.”

Damian scowled, but Father completely ignored him and took the phone from Pennyworth.

“Headmaster Dixon!” Father greeted. An insipid grin stretched across his face as he fell into being “Brucie”. Damian _hated_ seeing his father this way. Even though he knew it was an act designed to fool idiots, it still turned his stomach to see _his_ father, the one man (besides Drake but the less he thought about Grandfather's disturbing obsession with his most worthless “brother” the better) who Ra's al Ghul respects as an equal, acting like one of the Housewives on that mindless TV show Grayson and Todd insist on watching. “It's so great to hear from you! I was just thinking about how long it's been since I last donated to my old—”

Damian tactfully retreated from the room, pushing past Pennyworth and grinding his teeth together so hard he was surprised they didn't crack. Brucie Wayne was horrible enough, but if he had to sit there and listen to his father talk about _giving money_ to a pathetic excuse for an educator who was going to force Damian to _upset Colin_ he would have...

It scared him more than he would ever admit that he had no idea how he wanted to finish that thought.

By the time Damian burst into his room he could admit that he had been fleeing. The pressure in his chest, the urge to strike out at something and not stop until it was utterly _decimated_ , was a thousand times scarier than admitting weakness. Getting away from that feeling, running from it as fast as he could, was more important than his pride. Yet, when he reached his room he couldn't flee any further. He still _needed_ to, but his room was where he was fleeing _to_ and he couldn't run anymore and if Grayson was in the house it would be mere minutes before he came to talk and attempt to “comfort him” and if Grayson tried to hug him before this feeling went away Damian would most likely kill him. _Literally_ kill him.

And how disappointed would Father be in him then?

(Less disappointed than devastated but still less devastated than Damian, because he didn't _want_ to kill anything ever again and despite what he always says he actually _likes_ Grayson and Grayson is Colin's _favorite_ besides Damian and—)

He was out the window and running across the grounds before he even realized he was moving.

It didn't matter than all of their rooms had cameras trained on their windows and that Father would know he had disobeyed his direct order. He knew he would most likely be punished even more when he returned. But he couldn't stay. He needed to escape himself, and there was only one acceptable way for him to do that anymore.

It wouldn't occur to him until much later than it was too easy for him to slip into the garage and steal one of Father's rarely used motorcycles, but right then he needed to go fast and go far and this was the best option. He barely remembered to grab a helmet and one of Father's extra leather jackets from the garage locker before tearing down the driveway and out onto the road.

He rode for hours. As fast as he could, faster than any posted speed limit in the entire United States, faster than would have been safe even if he was wearing every bit of protective gear known to man. The cold air bit into his exposed skin and tore through his clothes and wormed its way under his helmet to claw at his chin and jaw. The pain grounded him, just like the speed grounded him. If he was going fast, the only person he could hurt was himself. If _he_ hurt, then he wasn't hurting others.

Old lessons he thought himself long past needing to remember.

By the time the pressure in his chest eased enough for him to stop, he was exhausted. He pulled over into the first place he could— _parking spot, no meter, concrete, asphalt, am I in the city?_ —and was somehow unsurprised to look up and see Colin's orphanage directly in front of him.

And despite the fact that the sooner he saw Colin the sooner he would have to let him down by telling him about the dance, suddenly all he wanted to do was bury himself in Colin's arms and stay there until Father came for him.

After taking off his helmet and turning off the motorcycle, Damian stealthily made his way around the orphanage until he was in front of the side of the building where Colin's room was. Climbing the building silently was child's play, barely even worth mentioning, and as always Colin's window was unlocked and slightly cracked to welcome any possible surprise visits from Damian. He shook his head as he usually did at Colin's sentimental foolishness, mentally cataloging all the ways an unlocked, open window put his beloved in danger, and slipped inside.

Colin was asleep, of course, curled up under his blankets around an object which could only be Rory. Damian remembered a time when he hated that bear and had no idea why—until the first time _he_ got to be the thing Colin curled up with.

(It was a nice memory, and also nicely edited, because if at all possible Damian would rather forget the multitude of smug smirks he sent towards a ragged, fluffy, inanimate object over the weeks that followed.)

Damian eased off his leather jacket and shoes, pushing them under the bed so they wouldn't be noticed if one of the nuns decide to check in on Colin—Damian was small enough to hide under the blankets and not be noticed. He both loathed and was thankful for this—in the middle of the night. As he climbed into Colin's bed, he could feel the tension and remnants of the horrible pressure inside him bleed away—

Until Colin twitched. Then moaned. And Damian froze.

“No. Stop,” Colin whimpered. He twitched again. “It hurts.”

Damian's heart clenched, and just like that his own comfort became the last thing he cared about.

He slid over to Colin—Colin who whimpered and shivered so quietly, who even while reliving the horrors of his past didn't want to be a bother to anyone else—and ever so gently pulled him away from his bear and into a loose hug. Damian knew better than to wake Colin from a nightmare. He'd made that mistake before, the first few times Colin had slept over in his room, and he knew that if he did Colin's screams would be anything but quiet and restrained.

The moment Colin's head touched Damian's shoulder his arms shot forward and wrapped themselves tightly around Damian's torso. Still asleep, he pressed himself as hard as he could against Damian and started to shiver. Damian hated this. Hated the way Colin, who tried _so hard_ to leave his past behind him where it belonged, who awed Damian everyday with how happy and innocent he could be despite what had been done to him, couldn't escape from his dreams. He didn't even take pleasure in being the only person who could comfort him. He would gladly sacrifice this one instance of being special if it meant that Colin could find relief when they weren't together.

“Shh,” Damian whispered into Colin's hair. “It will be all right. You don't need to be scared.”

And then Damian, as he always did when he found Colin this way, softly began to sing.

Quiet, melodious Arabic words slid from barely parted lips and covered the room like a warm blanket fresh from the dryer. At least, that's how this particular song always made Damian feel. When he was a child his mother used to sing it—not to him, never _to_ him, but around him. She sang it late into the night, when Damian was hurt and terrified and the things he'd been made to do wouldn't stop playing out behind his eyes like one of Todd's horror films. He'd always liked to pretend that she knew he could hear, knew that he took comfort from her voice when it was beautiful and warm, instead of cold and cruel as it could be during the day. Even though he knew better, he still thought back on those nights and wished she was still in his life.

He forced his thoughts away from his mother and his early life and refocused on Colin. It didn't matter why his mother sang it, really. All that mattered was that it had the exact same effect on a sleeping, dreaming Colin that it had on a lonely, painfully awake Damian. Slowly and tentatively, as if he needed to remind himself what comfort was before he could accept it, Colin melted into Damian's embrace.

“Mmm,” Colin mumbled in his sleep. He nuzzled his face into Damian's chest. “G'night Dami...”

Damian didn't stop singing until Colin's soft snores joined his mother's old words in the cool night air.

“Goodnight, beloved.”

He kissed Colin's head before closing his eyes and easily slipping into sleep.

The next day when he went home he was greeted with a crushing hug from Grayson and a stern lecture from Father. By the time he was allowed back into his room, his punishment had been extended by two weeks and his windows had been rendered incapable of opening. But, in the end, that was okay, because while he may have been barred from leaving the manor, he was still allowed visitors. And when he was finally allowed to return to school a week and a half later, he'd barely made it in the front gates before coming face to face with a lightly blushing Colin who was wearing nothing but a wide grin and a brand new Gotham Academy uniform. That weekend, Father allowed him out of his room so he could attend the dance with Colin.

For the first time in his life, Damian finally felt like he had a parent who understood him.

(Although now that Colin was in school with him, he actually started to care about the many threats of expulsion.

 _Well played, Father._ )

 


End file.
